Lovers and Friends
by KitLee
Summary: My first Chicago Hope fic, about Jeffrey Geiger's best friend. (Hint: It's not Aaron.) Please, please, please read/review!!!
1. My Girl

Lovers and Friends  
by KitLee  
  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters aren't mine.  
  
A/N: The title comes from The Beatles song "There are places I remember." All of the chapter titles are also from oldies.  
  
Chapter 1 - My Girl  
  
Throughout my life, there's been only one friend I would truly call my best friend. One friend whom I could tell anything. And it wasn't Aaron.  
  
Don't get me wrong, Aaron Shutt was a great friend; but Amanda Garrison was my *best* friend. My very best friend.  
  
When I was a kid, she lived right next door. She moved when I was nine, and she was six. I can remember exactly how she looked that day. Mom made me take a casserole over to them, so I was avoiding her in the backyard. Suddenly, I felt acorns hit my head and heard a high, girlish giggle. I looked up, and there was Mandy.  
  
I still don't know how she got up in that tree. She was small for six and looked younger; of course, she had a smart mouth and sounded older. That day, she was wearing denim overalls, a pink shirt, pink socks, white Keds, and a pink headband in her blonde hair. Mandy was the only blonde Jew I ever met, and somehow that made her even more rare and precious in my eyes.  
  
Anyway, we exchanged words (me being, at that age, pretty much the same as I am now). She jumped from the tree, surprising me with her safe landing. Standing, she was tiny next to me. And ever since then, we were best friends.  
  
It was an awkward begining, I know. Certainly not one that would suggest the creation of best friends. But I was lonely in the neighborhood with no other children, and Mandy and I grew close by necessity. Besides, Mandy was perfect for me. She tolerated my moods, teased me with immunity, and seemed to like me, faults and all. She could do or say anything, and I never got mad. On the other hand, I could be myself without fear of her ditching me.  
  
Everyday - rain or shine, summer or winter - Mandy would climb over the fence separating our houses and wait for me in my kitchen. She would hurry me through breakfast, and then we walked to the bus stop together during school, or we played in the backyard during holidays. During the summer we spent every morning in the backyard practicing baseball - either catching or hitting. I hate to admit it, but Mandy (3 years younger and a girl!) was a much better athlete than me. Actually, Mandy was better than me at everything. (Don't tell anyone else that, espcially not Kate Austin.) She was a great student, quick and smart. She was a great athlete. She played the piano and sang beautifully. And she was outgoing and friendly.  
  
Somehow, Mandy managed to find kids our age in the neighborhood, after years of my looking. They were closer to her age than mine - David Kessler, Keith Donnoly, Andrew Keegan, and Jason Asher - but we all played together, mostly baseball. They actually lived a couple miles away, so Mandy and I remained a duo.  
  
It's hard to describe our friendship after all these years. Heck, it was tough even in the middle of it, when guys would ask me why I was friends with a little girl. What we had, though, was magical and rare. She was like my best friend, advice columnist, friendly rival, and kid sister all in one. In short, she was my everything. I loved her.  
  
Mandy built this world for us, powered by her imagination and spirit. In it, nothing bad could ever happen to us. In it, even my mother's disapproval and pushing seemed to lessen. You see, Mandy had one of those rare, perfect families where everything is always . . . well, perfect. So her view of the world - all shiny, pink, and golden - spilled into mine; and Mandy could help me out of any mood I fell into. I realize now that we had a very one-sided friendship: I helped her with (some) schoolwork, and she helped me with everything else.  
  
It worked fine for the first several years of our friendship. But then, the one time she needed me, I couldn't. 


	2. Stand By Me

Chapter 2 - Stamd By Me  
  
I was fifteen years old, the year I started high school. Mandy, only twleve, was starting junior high. That was the year that everthing changed, the year I messed everything up, the year we stopped being best friends.  
  
That year, I was going to the huge public high school, where plenty of kids wouldn't know me as "that-weird-guy-who-hangs-out-with-the-little-kid." I was tired of being known soley for Mandy and our friendship. I was tired of being ridiculed for having such a little best friend (at twelve, Mandy still looked no older than about nine or ten). So I did what any stupid high school boy would do. I dumped her.  
  
I can still remember every detail of that day. She'd just hopped over the fence that day - August 31 - to come bother me at breakfast. The day was cool for August; so she wore faded jeans, a gray t-shirt, a blue and green flannel shirt (mine), her favorite New York Yankees baseball cap, and her sneakers - untied as always. Mandy was bouncing around in excitement over the end of the summer and beginning of school. Mandy loved summer, but she also loved school.  
  
Anyway, there she was, bubbling over with excitement as she bombarded me with news: new school supplies, new clothes, new shoes, and a new playmate - her mother's brother Brandon would be staying with them until he found a place in Boston. All I could think about though was high school and what everyone would say once they new that best friend was a baby.  
  
And that was when I did it. I blew up at her. I can't remember the exact words, but I was just screaming at her. I told her that she was a loser. That everyone at her school hated her, and that's why she had only me. And that I too hated her now. I taunted her, sharply and cruely.  
  
I just kept yelling, drunk with the sick pleasure of watching her cheerful, dimpled face sag and crumple. She started crying and fled my kitchen. She easily hopped the fence, and flew into the safety of her own house. It was the last time she would ever set foot in my house.  
  
I ran up to my room, furious with her and myself, and slammed the door. Immediately my attention was drawn to my open window. It looked right into Mandy's room, and we'd strung clothesline with a bell to get the other person's attention. Full of mercurial anger, I drew the blinds tight and tied them shut until the cord formed a vicious knot. I was not going to be bothered by her again.  
  
My anger lasted all of two hours. Afterwards, I felt guilty and sorry. I wanted to go over and apologize, but I couldn't. The only thing larger than my stupidity is my pride. Besides, Mandy had proven herself time and again to be the bigger person, so I assumed that she would be the one to extend the metaphorical olive branch.  
  
But then a week went by, and two. School started, and I was quickly buried in homework. It didn't help that I spent most of my free (and not free) time staring and at the curtains and wondering if she missed me too.  
  
The months flew by, and even now I'm not sure what happened. On the outside everything was still the same: she got up early and went to school every day, no matter what. But I never saw her practicing her pitch in the backyard or just climbing trees. When she did go into the backyard, she looked so pale, frightened, and quiet. She would just mindlessly toss the ball around; or, more likely, she would sit in the tree for hours, doing nothing. Definitely odd for such an active, cheerful kid.  
  
And I never saw her laugh, or even smile. Not once. Not even at the bus stop with her friends (the high school or junior high had the same bus stop). Sometimes her mouth would curve up a little in the motions of a smile, but it lacked the sheer happiness behind her grin.   
  
I wasn't blind. I knew that something was happening to her. I knew that she needed me. But I couldn't. I was afraid. Mandy was always the one who took care of me - not the other way around. I didn't know how to be there for her. So I retreated into books and homework, pretending that I didn't recognize how desperate she looked.  
  
This lasted months: from September to May. Finally, in May, someone rescued Mandy. But it wasn't me. I don't know all the details; all I know is what I heard and saw from my window.  
  
I was studying in my room when I heard a scream. More screams followed, all coming from Mandy's room. Quickly, I tried to untie the giant knot; and, when that failed, I just cut it. I threw open the curtains, ready to come to her rescue.   
  
I saw her sitting in her room, sitting in her mother's lap and sobbing. Her nightgown was wrinkled, and over it her mother had wrapped her in my flannel shirt. Her father was no where to be seen.   
  
Several minutes later a police car pulled up to her house. The officers went into the house and soon emerged with her uncle Brandon in custody. Mandy's father followed them onto the lawn; I'd never seen him (a mild-mannered man who adored his only child) so angry. He looked ready to kill Brandon. Mr. Garrison talked to the officer a little, and then went upstairs to check on his daughter. I saw him holding her up in her room, rocking her gently as the police car drove off into the night.  
  
Almost immediately after school ended, a For Sale sign went up in their yard; and soon it changed into a Sold sign. Mandy was moving. I couldn't face her. I was too afraid. But I watched from our tree the day they drove away in their station wagon. I sat there all day, watching the street.   
  
Later, I heard that they'd moved to San Diego, California. I hoped that there Mandy would remember to laugh and smile. I hoped that she would find a better friend that me.  
  
You may think that it's stupid for blaming myself for this after all these years, but it's not. If I had stayed her friend, or if I had only gone over and apologized to her right away; her uncle would never have been able to do those things to her. At the very least, it wouldn't have lasted as long as it did. Eight months! If only I'd been able to stand by her, protect her, she never would have gotten hurt. She was able to stand by me, but I couldn't stand by her. She needed me, and I failed her.  
  
"So darling, darling  
Stand by me  
Oh, stand by me  
Oh stand  
Stand by me  
Stand by me"  
  
-Ben E. King  
"Stand by me" 


	3. Run Away

Run Away  
by KitLee  
  
Disclaimer: Jeffrey Geiger is not mine. Everything else is. The title "Run Away" comes from a song by the same name.  
  
A/N: Okay, in case you couldn't tell, the person narrating the story is Jeffrey Geiger. This story is from Amanda's point of view, picking up where "Lover and Friends" leaves off.  
  
  
Sometimes, even now - after all these years - I have the old dream. I'm lying in my childhood bedroom back in Boston. I have the covers pulled up to my chin, and I'm staring up through the darkness at the ceiling. In my right hand I clutch my Star of David necklace, praying that it won't happen, praying that he won't come in.   
  
But he always does. He creeps in, so quietly that I can barely hear him enter. He doesn't say anything. He just comes over and does it.  
  
I'm completely terrified, but I know better than to scream, or even to whimper. If I do, he'll gag me with the bandana tied around his wrist. No - this is my fate.  
  
As I lie there beneath him, I turn my head to look out the window. I always leave it open, so I can see over to Jeffrey's house. I want him to open his window, so he can see and rescue me. I pray for that. I pray for his friendship. But it never comes.  
  
I can't count how many times I've had this dream, the exact same dream, since it stopped being a nightmarish reality. Probably over a million.  
  
When we first moved to San Diego to escape the memories in Boston, I had the dream a lot. Back then, my parents were so afraid for me. They wouldn't let me go or do anything, which was fine by me. And they sent me to both a psychiatrist and a psychologist. I was taking antidepressants and saw the psychiatrist once a week. I saw the psychologist three times a week after school to talk about day-to-day problems.  
  
Because of all that, I can barely remember middle school. I remember that I didn't have many friends. People were nice to me, but I never put any effort into being nice back, so they all eventually lost interest. Fine by me. My last best friend, Jeffrey Geiger, had left me feeling confused. On one hand, I loved - love - him. On the other hand, he abandoned me in my hour of need.  
  
High school was pretty much the same, except I was terrified of dating. I never went to a school dance, especially not Prom, because of my fear of intimacy. The pyschologist thought that it would be good for me to go, as long as my parents could be sure that my date would not try anything with me. I refused, however, and my parents supported me on that. If they'd had their way, they would have locked me in a tower like Danae for the rest of my life.  
  
During my senior year, I had to make the ever important college choice. I studied a lot and had made an effort to join some activities, giving me a competitive application. My parents wanted me to attend UC San Diego and live at home. But, after hearing that Jeffrey was at Harvard, I wanted to take my shot at the big league. I applied to Stanford.  
  
Getting that acceptance letter was difficult, because not only did I have to convice myself to go, but I also had to convince my parents to let me. And I did want to go. Stanford was like a dream, and it would be good for me to be on my own. We fought, argued, and debated; but finally they relented. And so, the following fall, I began at Stanford.  
  
Between high school and college, I stopped seeing both the psychiatrist and psychologist. The psychiatrist went first. He said that I was getting to the age that I should learn to live without the medications. Next, I had to bid farewell to the psychologist simply because I was moving away; I found a new one near school.  
  
I saw Stanford as a chance to start all over again and to put the past behind me. I was determined to make new friends, study hard, and even date a guy. On the outside, I flourished. My friends started calling me "Ms. Stanford" because they said I was the perfect student: smart (I studied hard and was near the top of my class); athletic (I played varsity cross country); and musical (I took piano).  
  
Yet all that was a facade, an elaborately created one to show the world that I was succeeding. The real Amanda Garrison was still a girl, haunted by her uncle's perverse acts back when she was twelve. The real Amanda Garrison studied until she was too exhausted to stay awake, in hopes that she would be too exhausted to dream. The real Amanda Garrison was haunted every night by the same dream that left her trembling and terrified and awake by 4:00 am at the latest. Looking back, it was a wonder that I could survive on so little sleep.  
  
Somehow, I made it. I graduated Magna Cum Laude with a degree in biology and moved on to medical school. Three months into my first year, however, I realized that I didn't want to be a doctor. So I dropped out, got my teaching certification, and began teaching high school biology and AP biology in San Diego.  
  
Right now, this is me: I'm middle-aged and divorced. My ex-husband Ryan and I divorced after six years of marriage because, as he said, I was never happy. We never had any child besides the son I miscarried shortly before the end of our marriage. I used to teach in San Diego, but I recently accepted a (beter paying) teaching job at the advanced North Side High in Chicago.  
  
Often, after my nightmare has awakened me, I think about my childhood in Boston. I remember the house that once held only pleasant memories. Mostly, I think about Jeffrey. Jeffrey Geiger was my best friend. I loved him. I think I still do love him, at least his memory. But for all those happy memories, one truth remains: he dumped me. He severed our friendship in the cruelest of ways, yelling and ridiculing. I can still remember some of what he said. But all that is in the past, and often I feel the impulse to look him up and call him. I want to talk to him, hear his voice and his flowing quips. I want to see him, check if he's as cute as I remember. I want to rekindle our friendship, which meant more to me than my marriage to Ryan.  
  
But that's stupid. I know it. He probably wouldn't even remember who I am. He certainly doesn't think about me and our good times together. It's only because of my trauma that I so often find my thoughts creeping back to the past, to my halycion childhood. 


End file.
